It's motive alone which gives character to the actions of men.

Host: The factory was closing for the night. Smoke curled upward from the tall chimneys, fading into the winter dusk. The air was cold, metallic, filled with the distant clang of a final machine shutting down. Inside the old canteen, two figures lingered — Jack, his hands scarred from years of work, and Jeeny, her hair pulled back, her coat damp from the evening drizzle.

A single light bulb hummed above them, flickering slightly, casting a pale halo on the rusted table where an old scrap of paper lay. On it, written in fading ink:

“It’s motive alone which gives character to the actions of men.” — Jean de la Bruyère

Jeeny: “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? We judge people by what they do, but maybe we should judge them by why they do it.”

Jack: “That’s a luxury, Jeeny. The world doesn’t care why you do something. It only sees the outcome. You steal bread — you’re a thief, no matter if you were starving.”

Jeeny: “But intent matters, Jack. The starving man isn’t the same as the greedy one. The law might call them both criminals, but conscience doesn’t.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t pay the price. Try telling that to a judge. Or to the family that lost what you stole.”

Host: Jack’s voice was like gravel — worn, steady, but lined with an old fatigue. His hands, still rough from work, tapped the table softly, the rhythm of a man thinking too hard about things he could never quite forgive.

Jeeny: “You’re talking about punishment. I’m talking about character. The line Bruyère draws isn’t about legality; it’s about humanity. Motive gives depth to what we do. Without it, every act is just motion — mechanical, hollow.”

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because philosophers understood what most people forget — that what drives us is who we really are.”

Jack: “And what if what drives us is ugly?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s what we must face.”

Host: The light flickered, casting their shadows long against the peeling walls. The factory clock ticked behind them, loud in the silence.

Jack: “You remember Tom from the second floor? The one who reported the safety violations last year.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “He said he did it to protect everyone. Said it was about truth. But I found out later he did it to get back at the foreman who demoted him. His act looked noble — but the motive was rotten. Tell me, Jeeny, does the purity of action still count when the heart behind it is poisoned?”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t. That’s exactly Bruyère’s point. The action itself means nothing without the motive. You can feed a hundred people and still be cruel if you only do it for praise.”

Jack: “So what — good deeds mean nothing unless they come from some perfect heart? That’s not how the world works. We all have mixed reasons. Pride, guilt, fear, love — they all push at once. You can’t dissect purity out of that mess.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can recognize the difference between manipulation and mercy. Between serving yourself and serving others.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the weight of her own conviction. Jack leaned back, eyes narrowing, the glow from the light bulb cutting sharp lines across his face.

Jack: “Tell me something honest, Jeeny. When you stay late helping the new workers — the ones who barely speak English — are you doing it out of kindness? Or because you want to feel like you’re the good one among us?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But the good part still matters.”

Jack: “Even if it feeds your ego?”

Jeeny: “Even then. Because maybe ego is how kindness learns to walk.”

Host: A faint wind rattled the windows. Somewhere outside, a train horn moaned — long, low, almost mournful. The room felt smaller with every word, the air dense with something unsaid.

Jeeny: “You’re not really talking about Tom or me, are you?”

Jack: “No.”

Jeeny: “Then who?”

Jack: after a pause “Myself.”

Jeeny: softly “What did you do?”

Jack: “Years ago, at another plant. There was a fire. I pulled a man out. They called me a hero. But the truth is… I wasn’t thinking about saving him. I was thinking about not wanting to watch him die. I did it to stop the image from haunting me. Tell me, Jeeny—does that make me selfish?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It makes you human.”

Jack: “Then Bruyère was wrong. Because my motive wasn’t noble — but the act still saved a life.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t wrong. Your act had both motives — one human, one self-preserving. But what matters is that, in the end, you acted. Maybe character isn’t in purity, but in honesty — in knowing why you moved, and still choosing to move.”

Host: The silence that followed was like a held breath. The factory hum in the distance had quieted, leaving only the faint buzz of the light. Jack’s gaze drifted toward the window, where rain began to fall — slow, deliberate, cleansing.

Jack: “You talk about honesty like it’s easy. But most people don’t even know their true motives. They lie to themselves better than they lie to anyone else.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Bruyère’s line stings. Because it’s not about judging others — it’s about examining yourself. To ask, every day: Why am I doing this? And to not run from the answer.”

Jack: “So we’re doomed to doubt ourselves forever.”

Jeeny: “No. We’re invited to stay awake.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm steady, like the heartbeat of the night. Jeeny’s eyes glistened in the dim light, and Jack, for once, didn’t look away.

Jack: “You know… you always make it sound like redemption isn’t in the act but in the awareness.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Even if your motive starts selfish, the moment you recognize it, you change its shape. Awareness purifies the act.”

Jack: “So truth’s not in what we do, but in why we dare to see ourselves doing it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock struck nine, its echo deep and final. The factory’s last lights flicked off, one by one, until only the canteen remained lit — a lonely island in a sea of darkness.

Jack stood, pulling on his coat, his expression unreadable, somewhere between fatigue and quiet revelation.

Jeeny: “Going home?”

Jack: “Yeah. But I’ll think about it. The quote, I mean.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s where it starts — with thought, not judgment.”

Jack: half-smiling “You and your faith in motives.”

Jeeny: “And you and your fear of them.”

Host: He gave a short laugh — the kind that sounds like a sigh escaping through a smile. Then he turned to the door.

The rain was still falling, gentle now, washing the grime from the old iron rails. Jack paused under the light, staring out at the street, the quote echoing faintly in his mind.

“It’s motive alone which gives character to the actions of men.”

Host: “And as he walked into the wet night,” the narrator’s voice murmured, “he began to wonder — not about what he had done, but about the reasons that had led him there. Perhaps that was the beginning of character — not the act itself, but the courage to look behind it.”

The factory lights dimmed completely, and the rain fell without judgment — washing the world, motive by motive, clean.